#184 Somniferum

by Tucker Cummings

He opened his eyes, then shut them quickly against the glare. He opened them again, squinting against a riot of flashing lights. Slowly, the burning around his eyes receded. He blinked the world into focus.

Billboards? Street lights? There was some cacophony of color in the distance that roiled his brain.

His forehead was cold. Why was his forehead cold?

A window. His head was pressed against the glass.

His body ached from sitting slumped on the floor. He leaned back to take it all in. There was a crack in the window where his forehead had been resting. In the square below, people darted from corner to corner, their faces obscured by a haze of rain. Was it Times Square at his feet, or Shibuya?

He blinked again, and his eye stung fiercely. He pressed his hand to his face, and came away with red-stained fingertips. His dim reflection in the tempered glass showed the cause: his forehead was bleeding.